Oliver blinked. “Sir?”
“You heard me. Kitchen duty. You’ll assist with whatever she wants—chopping, stirring, setting the table. You’ll be useful and polite and focused on the task at hand.” He half smiled. “And you’ll do it while remembering exactly how aroused you are. How much you want release.”
My legs pressed together involuntarily.
“When you reach for a knife, you’ll feel the ache between your legs,” Kiernan continued. “When you bend to retrieve a pot, you’ll remember what it felt like to be spread open on my desk. And when dinner is finished and we walk through those tunnels to the club, you’ll be trembling with need.”
He crossed to the door and unlocked it.
“Go. I’ll find you when it’s time.”
The kitchen waswarm and fragrant with roasting vegetables when we arrived. Millie looked up from her chopping board, her face creasing with surprise.
“Lord Lockhart sent us to help,” I said.
“Did he, now?” Millie studied us. Whatever she concluded, she kept it to herself. “Right, then. Oliver, you’re on potato duty. Ophelia, start on the salad.”
We worked in silence at first. The mundane tasks should have been grounding—washing lettuce, peeling potatoes, arranging vegetables on a platter. But Kiernan had been right. Every motion amplified my awareness of my want.
When I bent to retrieve a colander from the lower cabinet, the phantom press of Kiernan’s fingers ghosted through me. When I reached up for the olive oil, mynipples brushing my shirt sent sparks racing down my spine. The kitchen was warm, and my skin was flushed, and every breath I drew carried the memory of Oliver’s mouth on me—denied at the last moment, leaving me gasping and empty.
Beside me, Oliver was faring worse.
He repositioned himself relentlessly, unable to find a position that didn’t aggravate his welted skin or remind him of his own unfulfilled arousal. When Millie asked him to check on the roast in the oven, he bent down and his breath caught audibly. His hand shook as he basted the meat.
“Are you all right?” Millie asked, not unkindly.
“Fine,” Oliver managed. “Just—tired.”
She nodded once, then returned to her work.
An hour passed. Then two. We set the table in the formal dining room—crystal glasses, silver flatware, cloth napkins folded into intricate shapes. The trips I made from the kitchen to the dining room were their own small torture. By the time Millie declared everything ready, I was vibrating with tension.
Oliver caught my hand as we left the kitchen. His grip was tight, bordering on frantic.
“I don’t know how much more I can take,” he admitted.
“We can take whatever he gives us. That’s the point.”
His laugh was uneven. “When did you become the expert?”
“Last night. When I learned what happens when you earn it instead of stealing it.”
Kiernan spoke from the doorway. “Time to get ready.”
I almost asked about dinner, then thought better of it. My hunger wasn’t for food anyway.
14
OLIVER
The clothes laid out on my bed made me hard despite everything—or perhaps because of it.
Black leather trousers and two wide cuffs with O-rings on the outside lay on the bedspread, and nothing else.
I stripped off my shirt and jeans, wincing as the fabric dragged across my still-tender arse, where Kiernan’s belt had left welts I’d feel for days.
The leather trousers were tight, molding to my body like a second skin, and the weight of the cuffs was grounding as I fastened them around my wrists.
